It's been too long. I'm looking at the last time I uploaded a chapter and it's blown my mind. I remember writing that at such a drastically different point of my life. I think I was still in high school. I'm in college now. This chapter is kind of inspired by my own feelings of going so long without realizing what broke and then trying to pick up the pieces and make up for lost time.

SUMMARY OF LAST CHAPTER: Eiliyah realizes the quatrain printed on the card that she got with the rose came from Rhys' print shop (Rhys is her twin brother Harun's best fraand). She thinks that Hamza (I hope to God I don't have to remind y'all who Hamza is lol) is responsible for it so she meets Rhys there to ask him about it. Turns out, Rhys sent her the rose because he likes her. She says she doesn't have feelings for him and a devastated Rhys asks her for some time and distance. She comes home only to find her entire family worrying where she'd been because none of her texts went through. In this climatic moment, she and her sister Juwariyah finally blow up at each other, releasing the years of difficulty and resentment in their relationship.

"We're so caught up in pursuing happiness, in attaining a perfect life. But maybe a happy life isn't a perfect life. Maybe happiness is being happy and loving life even in its imperfect state." -- Ash

            The rest of the weekend I don't want to do anything else. I don't want to face my family, not after bearing my true feelings and opening myself up to them. Is it a serious emotional problem to be averse to any form of vulnerability, even around the people who are supposed to see that side of you? I don't know. I don't want to think.

There are so many things that race through my mind, so many battling thoughts. I think about Rhys all day. I curl up in bed and scroll through pictures on my phone, every major event where we were photographed together. Every point our lives converged, every memory. He likes me. The thought sends chills up my spine as his pained grey eyes flash through my mind.

I love him. Not in the romantic sense, but in the familial one. He's family. He's taken my brother as his own, loved him as his own, and I wish that that were enough. I wish that love was enough, but one of the cruel truths of the universe is that it isn't. I don't feel the same way for him as he does for me and I wish, God, I wish that I could give him what he wants, I wish that some remote possibility of us existed.

Dad is the one who knocks first. He opens the door wordlessly and sits down at the edge of my bed. "Don't," I say, staring at the wall. I can't look at him right now.

"Your sister—"

I turn to him, my blankets covering everything but my face. "Dad, please, I can't right now, okay? I can't talk to you about her, I don't want to think about her, I just don't want to right now."

"Listen," he starts, placing his broad, strong hand over mine through the covers. "I know what happened yesterday is something that's been building up for a long time. But she's your sister. She understands what you've been through more than anyone else does. Your family is always here to help you, to listen to you. We don't want you feeling like we're against you or that we don't understand you."

I sit up, wondering if I even have the energy to do this now. "If you wanted to listen to me then you would have done it since our first conversation about college. Do you even know that Harun and I don't want to go to the same college? That we don't want to be treated like a pair all the time? We are two different people. He is independent, Dad. More than I am, probably. So why do you make me his babysitter? Don't you know how much it hurts him that that's how incapable you think he is? Don't you realize how much it kills me to do what you guys want at the expense of going against what Harun wants? Don't tell me anything about—" I stop myself. No. I'm not going to disrespect my dad right now. It won't be worth it. Instead, I continue with "I just...why do you look at me and not see me? Am I not—"

God, I hate how my voice catches. I resent the sudden wetness of my eyes. Why do I have such a big problem with putting myself out there emotionally? How fucked up am I that I can't have my own family see me like this? "Am I just an afterthought for you?"

My father, my rock and role model for the last seventeen years of my life, doesn't cry. His eyes don't mirror mine. But I will never, ever forget what I see. The pain that my words cause him, the darkening of the abyss of his eyes, the questioning of his feelings for me shattering him from the inside out.

"Eiliyah," he starts. I'm not fooled by the strong set of his jaw. His eyes show me what his face won't, what his words won't, what his actions won't. "I love you so much." I've never heard my father say that to me. Our family doesn't talk about our feelings. We make the assumption that our actions say what our words don't. "Everything I've done for you has been out of love. We want the best for all of you. All five of you. It's my dream that the five of you are happy. It's the reason I exist. We love you so, so much." His voice catches at the second so.

I swallow the knot in my throat, command the tears to not spill over. "And I wish that were enough." I look down, trace the flowers on my comforter so I don't have to look at his face when I say that. "It's more than anything else in the world, but sometimes our love...sometimes it does more harm than good. I've learned that recently." I don't know who I'm talking about. My parents, Rhys, Juwariyah? All of them, maybe.

"I understand how much you love us. And because you do, I know you'll understand how much we need to be seen as just Eiliyah and just Harun. Please don't make us hate being in each other's company. Don't do that to me, don't do that to him." With that, I lie back down, pull the covers back over myself, retreating back into the solace that is myself. I shut my eyes as I hear the door quietly shut and my father's footsteps retreat.

I don't want to go to school. The silver lining is that I can get up early enough where I can avoid everyone except for Harun who thankfully, is the only one who understands how I feel. We silently make ourselves coffee in the kitchen, the steady hum of the coffeemaker the only sound surrounding us. It's dark in the house; we never turn on the lights. It makes it more peaceful, I guess.

The car ride is silent but I know he's not itching to ask me how I feel. We both just know it's one of those things that goes without explanation. As we get out of the car, we split ways. I know he's going to go meet up with Rhys and I can't. I can't see Rhys right now and I can't tell Harun why because it's not my story to tell. It's not my heart to pour out.

As we're saying goodbye right by the entrance to our school, Harun hesitates for a second before reaching over and hugging me with one arm. I sink into the warmth of his jacket. The November chill ceases to bite my skin. Gently, he gives me a quick kiss on the side of my forehead like he used to do when we were kids and then he's off. I stand there for a second, eyes on the pavement, my hands in the pockets of my coat.

When I glance up, I'm startled for a split second to see Hamza gazing intently at me. As soon as he sees me notice him, he turns his attention forward and starts striding away quickly. I walk at a slower pace but we both enter at the same time.

The first two people I see are Janessa and Christian. Christian's arm is around Janessa's and they approach both Hamza and I at the same time. Janessa's face is flushed and Christian's arm is lovingly placed around her shoulder. "Just the person I wanted to see!" She breaks away from Christian long enough to give me a hug. We see each other a few times a day but life has a tendency to make us forget about the friends who matter to us the most.

"It feels like forever!" I mirror her joyful tone, maxing out my energy into feeling something I'm not. Christian and Hamza greet each other as well, doing the handshake, half-hug, shoulder-touching thing that guys do. I'm not looking at him and I can tell he's doing his best to avoid looking at me too. We both focus on our respective friend.

"Okay, so," Nessa looks at Christian first before continuing and he nods at her to continue, "my dad got four complementary tickets to the Bryson Tiller concert and it's not really my parents' scene so Christian and I are going but we wanted to bring one friend each."

"It's you guys," Christian states when neither Hamza nor I reply immediately.

When Hamza doesn't say anything still, I reply sunnily (although I'm really not feeling it), "Thanks, you guys. It sounds exciting! If the date works then I'll try to be there but I—"

"I may be in New York at that time," Hamza comments. I can picture how blank his expression. I feel his proximity to me and the tension between us. Or am I just imagining that? Nessa look slightly taken aback at how harshly he rejected the invitation but one look from Christian has Hamza saying, "But, like Eiliyah said, thanks for inviting us. I'll definitely try to be there. What day is it?" I almost laugh at loud at how bitter my name sounds in his mouth. How ludicrous the whole situation is makes me equivocate between hating it and finding it extremely amusing.

"The twenty-second of December. So a little over a month."

"Sounds good," Hamza and I say at the same time. I reflexively turn to look at him and find that he's doing the same. We break eye contact and look away. As I turn, I see both Janessa and Christian staring intently at us, but they don't say anything. It's what people don't say that's more important than what they do.

The week passes by slowly, painfully. I speak to my mom only functionally and I feel her eyes observing me even when I'm not looking. She tries talking to me but the thing about mothers is that they've known you longer than you've known yourself. Longer than the rest of the world by nine months. So my mother understands that this isn't something she can pressure me to talk about so she drops it, staying silent as she watches me greet Juwariyah when she comes over before retreating back to my room.

What Rhys says to me lingers in my mind. Lingers is an understatement. It takes front and center. The fact that he had nothing to do with this "secret admirer" or this creep or whoever/whatever he is. How this guy knew things about me that only people who've known me for a long time (like Hamza) could have known. Hamza's comment about how I don't even know what my own brother is up to and his invitation for me to hate him the day I figure it all out. And of course, Rhys' anger at Zayd (what does he have to do with anything?). I'm missing something and it bothers me.

There's still so much I want to ask Rhys but I can't. It's funny how we don't realize how significant someone is to our lives until they're not in it anymore. I didn't realize how much I'd miss him until I can't talk to him anymore. Is that what love is, though? When you want something but you hold yourself back for the benefit of the other person? Because I want to talk to Rhys so badly but he told me he needs space, that this is still too painful to talk to me and I have to respect that. Still, though, I miss him.

It's almost two weeks after he tells me that I'm in close proximity to him again. After school I go to Christian's locker—the one he, Hamza, and I occasionally share. Christian is there when I get there. "Hey!" He says as he contemplates taking his Spanish book out of his locker. After some deliberation, he opens up to a page, takes a picture, and slides the book back into his locker.

"Hey. Do we have Spanish homework?" I gesture to the picture he just took of a textbook page.

"Oh, nah, I just forgot to do last night's so I can make it up for half credit. What's up?"

"Uh, nothing much." He moves aside so that I can get my stuff out. I had left my newspaper staff manual in his locker early today and it has all the articles I need to edit by tomorrow. "Just attempting to finish this semester without crying."

"Well, hey, at least you have the concert to look forward to, right?"

I offer a small smile as I make sure all the articles are in the binder. "That's true. If my parents say it's fine."

"Do you listen to Bryson Tiller?"

"I freaking love Bryson Tiller. I don't think there's a song by him that I don't like."

Surprise coats his voice. "Really? That's great. I couldn't gauge by your reaction when we asked you."

I sigh. "Oh, no, it isn't the concert—"

"It's Hamza." He states knowingly. Before I can (falsely) protest, he continues, "I know things are weird between you guys and if you don't want to go it's—"

"No, seriously, it's fine." I smile reassuringly at his dubious expression. After a few more reassurances, Christian says he needs to head out and leaves me at his (our?) locker. The hallways have nearly cleared out by now and just as I'm about to leave, Hamza approaches, startling me. I'd had my head buried inside the locker, reorganizing it and making a mental note of what I have stored.

Just as I turn to leave, I see Rhys approaching, about to walk by me. The hallway is deserted so our interaction is unavoidable. He still hasn't spoken to me and I figured I owe him enough to not speak to him until I know he's ready. Quickly, I turn back around, facing the locker. I sense Hamza looking at me out of the corner of his eye. Ah, what the hell? I wonder, absentmindedly grabbing my history notebook that I don't have a pressing need for tonight. Anything to give the illusion of busying myself in a vain attempt to calm my wildly beating heart.

From the second I saw Rhys to the second he turns the corner, I'd been holding my breath without knowing it. I blow out a long breath and drop the composition notebook into my backpack and zip it up. My palms are sweaty against the material of my bag.

"So what did you do to make him avoid you? Or are you avoiding him?" The arrogant certainty in his voice is taunting.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I level his tone with mine but my heart is racing (now with indignation) as I challenge his eyes with my own.

"I can imagine. Rejection is a bitch." God, I can see from the microscopic upturn of his mouth that he's thoroughly enjoying this. Blood rushes to my head at an alarming speed. My heartbeat increases. I am livid.

"Don't." I command through gritted teeth.

His eyes spark with interest. "Typical," he smirks. With that, he slams the locker shut and walks away. I know he's gloating from how he strides away. I grip my notebook tighter in my hand, letting the metal spiral bite into my skin, anything to distract from the rage wreaking havoc through my body.

Finally, I walk out of the building as calmly as I can. It's not until I'm in the car that I allow myself to acknowledge the pain.

Telling Sayeeda is an impulsive decision. I wasn't planning on it, maybe because saying it out loud, being forced to think about how to communicate it would make it more real. It happens when I'm at her house, sitting on the couch waiting for Netflix to load the movie we want to watch.

"I figured out who gave me the rose," I say as I stare at the red circle rapidly turning clockwise.

"What?"

"Yeah it was...Rhys." I wait for realization to dawn on her and when it does, her eyes pop wider than I've ever seen them. The movie has started but she hits the pause button forcefully and turns to me.

"Rhys? Like Harun's Rhys?!"

I pull the afghan up to my chin, resting my head back. "Yeah." She pokes me hard. "Ow," I exclaim. "What?"

"You're just gonna do your girl like that? You can't just drop a name and not give me the who, what, when, where, and why." I look out the window, out the patio door. It's chilly today and a frost coats the grass and the air. Sayeeda and I are on the couch in sweatshirts, leggings, and high socks. Her legs rest in my lap and she props herself up by the elbows. They dig into the arm of the sofa as she looks at m expectantly.

"I kept the card that came with it, that stupid quatrain," I mutter. As I say that it dawns on me how attentive Rhys must have been to remember that I liked that particular line from the Shakespearian play. It hits again, the staggering guilt at his attentiveness, the purity of his intentions. If only I could reciprocate. If only.

"Harun has this framed photo in his room with a card from Juwariyah and Jamal. It's an inscription done on this really nice paper and it's from Rhys' family's print shop. I saw it when I went into his room and I remembered the card that I got so I compared the two and it was the same."

She processes all this quickly and immediately asks, "Did you talk to him about it?" Her almond eyes search my face for any clues before I answer.

"I asked him to meet me at the print shop and he did. I showed him the card. I thought...well I thought that it was Hamza's doing. I mean, we were never close but we read that play together in middle school, read that exact scene, actually. It was likely that he may have remembered that and done it to, I don't know, mess with me? He said something that hinted at it a while ago.

Anyway, I showed it to Rhys. And immediately he just...he told me he liked me. From the moment he talked to me, I guess, which was way back in the day when Juwariyah first got married—I don't know if I ever told you. We saw each other a few years later, in high school. And he became Harun's friend and mine too. And I never...I never knew. He never told me that he liked me."

Sayeeda is quiet. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she ponders what I just told her. "Do you...do you like him?"

I grimace. "Does it matter? It's a relationship that's doomed. I want to be with someone Muslim. He's a devout Christian. Of course he wants someone who shares those same beliefs, the same devotion to his faith."

"Those are reasons a relationship can't work out. And they're valid. But the heart doesn't listen to reason. If it did, there would be no heartbreak. But do you like him?"

I shut my eyes, feeling the guilt all over again. "I wish. I wish I did. Maybe it'd be a hell of a lot easier if I did because at least then I wouldn't have broken his heart. But I don't. And I wish I could do something about it because it feels so unbelievably cruel to make one of the most important people in my life feel like that. Every time I think about it, I'm just overwhelmed. He has been such a huge part of Harun's life, such a big part in Harun's normalcy. He's like a brother to Harun and a brother to me. He's done so, so much, Sayeeda. For Harun, for me, for my parents who are just so happy Harun has people in his life who are willing to go above and beyond to be in his life. And it feels cruel of me to do that to a person like that, to make him feel like this."

The tears don't spill but my throat locks, my body's way of actualizing the feelings I'm trying to dissociate with myself in an attempt to get over Rhys, as ironic as that sounds. Me, the one who doesn't have the feelings, trying to get over the person whose heart a broke. Oh, the fucking irony.

"Hey, hey, hey." Sayeeda squeezes my shoulder. "Eiliyah, you can't help that. You can't help that you don't feel that way for him. What could you have done instead? Tell him that you liked him if you didn't? It sounds weird but telling him you don't share his feelings is a lot kinder than trying to convince yourself—and Rhys—that the feeling is mutual."

"I know. I'm just—he told me he needs to take a break from me for a while. To just...process and work through it the best way he can. So we aren't talking and it's killing me but God, Yee, it'd be so selfish of me to talk to him right now. It's the least I can do for him." My cousin and the girl who's been my best friend for most of my life cracks a smile at my nickname for her. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and sighs.

"I agree. You shouldn't talk to him. I think it's up to him to decide when he's ready to take that step. But Eiliyah...I'm gonna be honest with you. You have to prepare yourself from the possibility that he may never be able to talk to you again or that if he does, things won't be the same."

I had allowed myself to think about those two possibilities briefly. Both raised a panic in me and pleading prayers to God that that won't be the case. But it's a real possibility and it's one of the cruelest truths of life: that relationships evolve and there is no way to make them the way they were again.

Sayeeda commands "Don't blame yourself for this" after we sit in silence for a minute. Something on my face must have given it away because she says, "Oh, no. You already do, don't you? What happened?" So I tell her the second part of the story, about how Rhys walked past me while Hamza and I were at Christian's locker and how every atom in my body ached at the awkwardness of the situation. What Hamza said. How he said it.

Fire burns deep in the depths of her earth-hued eyes, magma burning. "Asshole," she seethes when I finish. I shrug, swallowing loudly.

"Yeah, well, he is perceptive."

She shakes her head, then pauses halfway. Her head snaps up and she stares me down in a way that makes me feel bare, vulnerable. "You agree with him," she says in a tone that's a statement rather than a question.

"No, I just...I mean he is right. He—"

"No." She shakes her head furiously. "He does not get to do this, Eiliyah. He doesn't get to make you feel this way. He has no right, no place." She huffs at the end of the rant. And then the tears start, the wetness of the salt water dampening my lashes and streaming down.

Sayeeda's face immediately softens. She rarely sees me cry. Sitting up completely and taking her legs off my lap, she pulls me to her. "Eiliyah..." is all she says before she trails off. But she knows. She knows that when you already think something about yourself, someone else saying it is a reaffirmation that solidifies it into an irreversible truth. Another cruel truth of life.

November passes quietly. My parents and I begin talking again, ignoring what happened and instead resuming the nature of our relationship. I notice they don't broach the topic of college and where I want to be next fall. We artfully avoid it, and I mentally prepare myself for staying close to home next year. It's not a big deal, I rationalize. Juwariyah, Zaid, and Zubair all did it. It'll be fine. Inshallah. Who cares, anyway?  With enough convincing, I begin believing myself.

I don't mention the Bryson Tiller concert to my parents for a few weeks. My mind is preoccupied with Rhys, with Hamza, with what a mess my relationships with people are. After Hamza's goading, he doesn't speak to me and I don't speak to him. I move everything of mine out of Christian's locker, instead opting to walk halfway across campus to use my own locker.

The anonymous text messages taper off. I don't engage anymore. I stop replying, and then eventually I call my phone company and inquire about how to block a contact, which I promptly do.

I had the routine down pat by early December: avoid Hamza at all costs, block any messages from The Creep, and throw myself in school as a reason for my and Rhys' lack of speaking to one another. He comes over to my house once or twice to hang out with Harun as he usually does, but skillfully when I'm not home.

Hamza's sister Hidayah asks me for help in her chemistry class, but I offer to do it after school in our high school's library so I don't have to go to Hamza's house. "Okay, does that make sense?" I ask her one day as I finish the calculations for molar concentrations.

Hidayah is sitting with her chin propped on her arm. She pulls the sleeve of her pale pink knit sweater over her hands and toys with the edges of her sleeves. "Yeah, I kind of do." I notice the edges are fraying. It must be her favorite sweater.

When we finish, I ask her if she needs a ride home. She shakes her head. "Hamza's staying after too."

"Okay, cool." I reply. My expression is blank as I finish packing my bag.

I can sense her hesitation as he stalls for a minute. "Can I ask you something?"

No. "Yeah."

"Is my brother the reason you don't come over anymore?" I slip on my jacket and retie the laces of my white Converse as I think of how best to phrase my answer. It's clear from her tone that she knows it's the reason but is asking to confirm her suspicions.

"Your brother and I have a weird relationship. I'm not trying to make it weirder, so I think it's easier to not put ourselves in situations that make it more awkward." Decent response, Eiliyah.

"Oh, okay." She cocks her head. "I know he did some dumb shit."

A surprised, amused laugh escapes my lips before I can consciously control it. As I say "Not particularly" it occurs to me that I can't remember the last time I heard my laugh.

It's that night that I finally decide to ask my parents about the Bryson Tiller concert. They know Janessa, they trust Christian, and so the only concern is the actual event itself. We're in a good place, my parents and I, so I feel like it's the right time to ask.

I ask after dinner. "Janessa's father got four tickets to a concert. Christian is going with her and they're each bringing a friend. Janessa asked me. Would it be okay if I go?"

"Is it during your final exams?" is the first question to escape my mother's lips.

"No, it's December 22nd. I'll be off school by then."

"Is it going to be a crazy and loud event?" My dad asks.

"No, Bryson Tiller makes more quiet and soulful music." They're actually considering it, oh my God. After they ask about a million other questions, they say they'll think about it. I have no idea if they'll say yes or no. But the real question is do I even want to go? Sure, it's a great opportunity to see an artist I enjoy. God knows I'd never spend my own money to attend, so if I have a chance to go, why not? Especially given the music in question is quiet and has soul like I told my dad. On the other hand, Hamza will probably be there as well. And how awkward will that be? Incredibly. There won't be any way that Christian and Janessa will miss it.

Three days later, I've never stopped wondering whether my parents will say yes or no. "I talked to Christian's mom," my mom tells me.

"Maaaaa!"

"When you're a mother, you'll understand. Anyway, I talked to her about it and so I'm comfortable with letting you go." I raise my eyebrows in utter disbelief. I didn't actually think she'd say yes. "But," she continues. Oh, God, how did I not know there would be a stipulation attached? "But, I don't want you all driving back alone at night. It'll be crazy and busy."

"I think Janessa is driving there, though."

She nods. "That's fine. I'll pick you up."

Okay, I love my mother and I'm certainly not embarrassed by her but hell no. "Maaa! No."

She turns around to pour her Indian chai into a mug. "Okay. Juwariyah can do it." How quickly she comes up with that idea makes me snap my mouth shut. I get a strong feeling I walked straight into that one. I open my mouth but all that comes out are faint sounds of protest. My mother looks at me pointedly. "What's wrong with that?"

"I..."

"You're going to have to talk to your sister at some point," she points out.

Groaning lightly, I say, "I know. It's just that we haven't talked much lately and having her pick me up would be awkward."

"She's your sister."

"Yeah, I got that figured out," I mutter. She shoots me a pointed look, elegantly tucking a wisp of curly hair behind her ear before nicely (but firmly) telling me that my options were have her pick me up or have Juwariyah do it.

We don't talk about it after that, save for the straight-to-the-point text Juwariyah sends me a few days before the concert asking the address of the venue and when I think the concert will be over.

I get the text at the beginning of my winter break, which is much awaited and welcome after a brutal round of finals. The exams themselves weren't as hard as struggling to care (senioritis hits hard). When my phone buzzed, I expected it to be Sayeeda or Sarah (who now only texts me to ask me about Hamza on account of her massive crush on him). When I saw Juwariyah's name on the screen my heart leapt a bit.

I was relieved and mildly disappointed when all she did is ask about the details of the concert. What did I want? An apology? A "hey, let's talk about this"? Instead, I reply to her message with equal brevity and civility.

The actual day of the concert, I'm internally freaking out. It's one thing to see Hamza at school, where it's easy to ignore him. But we're indirectly hanging out outside of school and that's a whole different level of interaction. Granted, it'll most likely be me and Janessa and Christian and Hamza paired off but I can't fight my nerves. And afterwards, what do I have to look forward to? An hour long car ride with Juwariyah which will be our first real interaction after we blew up on each other?

My dad appears at my doorway as I'm getting ready. "What time are you leaving?"

"Whenever Christian and Janessa get here. At six, I think."

He pauses for a second. "Are you sure this concert isn't going to be out of control? I don't know how I feel about you going." Is my dad giving me an out?! Yaas, Dad, please be my excuse. On the other hand there's too much anticipation to not be at least a little disappointed if I don't get to go.

"From what I know, it isn't wild or anything. He's kind of a new artist and all of his music is generally mellow. I've seen videos of his concert online and it's tame enough where I'd be comfortable. It's just people enjoying his music and having a great time."

"What's this guy's name again?"

"Bryson Tiller." I can guarantee my dad is going to run a background check on this guy immediately (if he hasn't done so already). After asking me one or two other things, my dad leaves, allowing me to start getting ready.

My mascara wand slips a bit in my hand as my palms sweat. Blowing out a deep breath, a steadily wing my eyeliner, stepping back when I'm satisfied with my makeup: black winged eyeliner and a classic red lip. I slip on a simple, long white t-shirt and black jeans. Before I put on my leather jacket, I hook a silver tribal choker necklace around my neck. Janessa sends me a text that she's outside so I quickly slip on black combat boots and lace them up as I say salaam to my mother, brother, and father.

The December breeze cools my heated, anxious skin as I pull the car door open. Christian is driving and Janessa is in the passenger seat. "You look great!" She compliments. Christian agrees.

"Thanks" is all I can muster as I blow out a breath. I'm dressed to look bomb as hell, I'm not even going to lie.

We make a little small talk as we pull into Hamza's neighborhood. I scoot to the opposite car door as he gets in. We sit a seat apart, barely acknowledging each other as he says hi to both Nessa and Christian. Christian catches my eye through the rearview mirror. I look out the window.

The thing about me and Hamza is that I'm 100% certain Christian knows how we don't really get along, and because Christian knows, Janessa definitely knows, although we haven't talked about it directly. For that reason, I feel this obligation to speak up, carry on pleasant conversation so my and Hamza's dysfunctionality doesn't sully the night for either of our friends.

I survive the car ride, the time it takes to wait and get inside the concert hall. There's a general admission floor in the center and seats surrounding the perimeter. We have tickets in the front row of the seats, an average distance from the stage. Janessa tells us if we want, we can go down to the floor.

Thankfully, Christian and Janessa have the tact and subtlety to sit in the middle, me on Janessa's left and Hamza on Christian's right. While I appreciate the seating arrangement, it annoys me that it has to be like this, that I'm constantly making calculated maneuvers to avoid Hamza.

As we wait for Bryson to take the stage, we're all looking around and commenting on our surroundings. I have to lean forward a bit to hear Christian and my view is no longer obstructed, allowing me to look directly at Hamza. I take quick glances at him.

He's wearing a light grey Henley and dark wash jeans with a leather jacket. His hair has grown out a bit, enough where it's the perfect length to be carelessly styled to give just enough volume to his hair.

The concert hall is dark. The stage lights are subdued, the pinks and blues not yet lit up to their full capacity. Waiting. On the screen behind the stage, a plain screen projects the word T R A P S O U L, the name of Bryson's album. The stage, the darkness, the lights waiting to project, everything hangs in anticipation.

Finally, Bryson Tiller comes out. The crowd roars in welcome. It's one of those moments I feel in the depths of my chest, that's how loud it is. I command myself to relax, to enjoy this, to just feel the music and revel in the energy of someone who looks like he loves what he does. I can appreciate positive vibes.

He starts with his more mellow music. I love it. I've heard him before, listened to his pouring out his heart about what could have been with a girl he really loved. There's an excitement to the performance, sure, but it's tinged with a what-if, the deadliest combination of words in the English language. What if, indeed? What if Hamza and I were different? What if we at least had a civil conversation?

In the past month and half since Rhys told me what he told me, my suspicions that Hamza was behind the rose and the quatrain, I have an inkling that he may be involved in some part of it. But what? The texts? My brain recognizes the possibility, but I've been squashing any potential of even considering the possibility. Why? I don't know why. I don't know if feeling hurt and betrayal to some degree is a part of it, but I sure as hell know that more than how I'd feel, I can't be caught up in something—or someone—that doesn't matter in the long run. Someday, in some way, I may have to think about it. But today isn't that day.

"Eiliyah?" Janessa taps my shoulder as she half-shouts my name.

"What?" I turn to see both she and Christian looking at me. Hamza is looking straight ahead.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just enjoying it. The music has me thinking. That's how you know it's good." I flash a smile, actually pretty happy in this moment.

As the performance progresses, he starts performing his more hype songs. Janessa proposes we go down to where everyone is standing, to get closer. We do it during the short break and manage to cross two-thirds of the general admission area so we're more or less close to the stage.

I immediately regret that decision as people start packing together. I'm uncomfortable being in close proximity to a bunch of guys I don't know (a conservativeness rooted in my Islamic belief) and I attempt to step away as I'm nearly pressed up against a guy my age. The way the four of us are standing keeps shifting too as we all attempt to stand in the most comfortable way that we have room.

It kind of ends up being a weird U-shaped line with Janessa and Christian followed by Hamza and then by me. I'm standing lightly in front of Hamza, and a little bit off to his right. Bryson comes back on stage and the lights start flashing, the whole shebang.

He performs Nessa's favorite song from the album, "Sorry Not Sorry," and when I look over, I can see her having a ball as the pink and blue flashing lights illuminate an expression that shows she's having the time of her life.

I, on the other hand, am extremely awkward, not just because of my aversion to dancing in public, but also because it's incredibly hard to turn up at a concert when you're standing six inches away from a guy who has openly expressed his hatred for you. I can sense from behind me that he's also not dancing much.

We're on the floor for a couple more songs. I smile when I hear a really catchy beat start playing. The crowd shouts and starts jumping up and down. "Woke up in the hills this morning..." Bryson sings low into the mic. At some time in the next two seconds, I see that a guy next to me is getting closer to me (from what seems to be on purpose). I step back in the only direction I can, which is into Hamza, apparently. I feel my ponytail brush over the soft material of his Henley. I quickly step forward again to create some space between us. Allah, please just let me get out of this one alive and not dead from my awkwardness, please and thank you. I finish uttering the quick prayer just as a hand reaches out to grab me.

I only catch a glimpse of the owner of that hand, and it's evident he has the intention of dancing with me. Okay, so I guess looking bomb as hell has its downsides. Before I can panic and pull back (please tell me what the appropriate way is to stop a random guy from pulling you towards him in a dark concert hall), an arm grabs me from behind and pulls me back, steadying me against a strong chest to prevent me from stumbling.

Before I can turn around or even process the situation fully (besides a hasty thought that the gym has been doing Hamza a lot of favors), Hamza's pulling on my arm and gesturing to Janessa and Christian to move to their left, away from the weirdo who tried grabbing me.

When we're a safe enough distance away, Hamza lets go of me and steps away from me. I'm silent for a minute, and then stand on my toes to shout a sheepish "Thanks!" in his ear. He has to bend down to hear what I'm saying but he doesn't say anything back. He kind of nods while still staring straight ahead. We're silent after that. Janessa and I are standing next to each other, with Hamza on my right. She takes my hand and squeezes it when Bryson Tiller announces his last song of the night.

My smile widens when I recognize the familiar beat and vocalization of my favorite song from the album. He looks out into the crowd and sings "This what happens when I think about you. I get caught up in my feelings, yeah..." How many times have I heard that song and smiled? How many times have I wondered who the song is about, who crosses his mind every time he thinks about all the people who've heard his music? It's perfect, honestly, the perfect way to end the night. For a moment, it's just me. My eyes are trained on Bryson, watching him as he sings about the girl he wished he'd never screwed it up with.

And then he hits me with the line that's had me thinking from the moment I first heard it.

"Lord please save her for me...do this one favor for me..." I don't know what it is about that moment, but without thinking I cast a glance at Hamza. My stomach drops when I see him looking back at me.

We don't look at each other the rest of the night.

It's cold by the time we leave the building. Nessa jumps up and down and buries her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket to keep herself warm. It must be in the fifties right now. "Okay, which way is the car?" Christian asks. I feel a familiar buzzing in the pocket of my jacket; when I pull it out I see that Juwariyah is calling.

"Oh, my sister is here." I break off from the group when I answer. "I'm in Jamal's car, look to your left, past the curved roundabout type of thing," my sister says. When I follow her directions I see her in the distance, in Jamal's red Toyota, which he's had since before he and my sister got married, which he will never get rid of even if Juwariyah begged him to.

She pulls up near where we are, says hi to all three of the people I'm with. "Okay, I'm going to go," I say. I give Janessa a big hug and wave at the boys (really just Christian, who are we kidding?).

It's fine until we hit the highway. That's when the awkwardness and silence hits. "How was the concert?"

"Uh, really good. Allhamdulillah. I really liked it."

"That's good. I haven't heard of Bryson Tiller. Is he new?"

"Yeah, this is his first album I think."

"When'd you start listening to him?"

"Sayeeda showed me his music this summer."

Silence. A mental deliberation. Finally, "Dad was freaking out. He looked up this guy after you left, listened to a song or two by him. He didn't like the cursing."

I smile ruefully in the darkness. My father is the epitome of an Indian father. "Yeah, I know. There isn't much of it."

"That's what I told him." A bridge of solidarity, both sister of the same father. I can hear the careful edge of it in her voice.

My heart softens at the sound of her trying. I can even hear the nervousness in her voice. "He played my favorite song at the end. It's called 'Exchange.'"

"Really?"

"Yeah. It has this line that always gets me. 'Lord please save her for me, do this one favor for me.'"

"Wow, that's...actually really beautiful."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too." We've exhausted our tentative civility for a while.

Silence ensues for a bit more until Juwariyah says, "Isn't that guy in the grey shirt that kid you went to middle school with?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"What's his name?"

"Hamza."

"Do you guys hang out a lot?"

I shake my head. "No. Never." And then the conversation drops off again. When we're about twenty-five minutes away from home and stopped at a traffic light, Juwariyah turns to me. Her wedding ring glints in the light as she wraps her fingers around the steering wheel. In the dark, the streetlight slants across her face diagonally, illuminating her large brown eyes.

"Hey, do you want to get burgers? There's a halal burger place around here."

"Oh. Don't you have to go home to the twins?"

She shakes her head. "Jamal's got it tonight. He knew I wanted to take you somewhere." That melts my heart even more. Despite our differences, I know Juwariyah loves me immensely.

I nod. "Okay, yeah." Seven minutes later, we're pulling into a shopping plaza with a diner at the end of the strip. It's owned by an Arab family I vaguely recognize from the masjid. We take a seat in a booth as one of the owner's many sons brings us a menu. He leaves for a bit, and then comes back to take our orders.

As we wait for our food, Juwariyah clears her throat and toys with the buttons on the ends of her jacket's sleeves. "Hey, listen, I want to apologize for yelling at you, okay? It wasn't right of me."

I'm still, utterly still. "It's okay," I say. She visibly exhales, as if the weight of our strained relationship has just been taken off her shoulders.

As she's about to say something, I interject. "I meant it, though. What I said." She snaps her mouth shut, attempting to make sense of what I'm saying. "You have this special bond with Harun, partly because of all that he's been through and your role in bringing together our family when we were all falling apart. And I don't mind that. At all. But you can't just take Harun's experiences and invalidate my own." I'm pleasantly surprised at how strong my voice is, how my eyes are dry. I mentally pray to God for the eloquence to make my point across. "You push me to the side so much and you go around thinking that I'm so wrapped up in myself so you have to save everybody."

"Eiliyah—I don't think that of you."

"You don't mean to think that," I correct. "But you unintentionally make me feel like everything I feel, do, or say is invalid."

Her face softens. There's remorse on her face, illuminated by the dim white ceiling lights. "Listen, what I said wasn't justified. I—"

"What happened to us?" I interrupt. "We used to be so close. What happened?"

She forces out, "I don't know." And maybe that's harder, the not knowing part. Because we don't know what went wrong. We don't know what broke along the way that led to this, led to how we are today.

Now my eyes do prick with the beginnings of tears. An acute, agonizing feeling of longing hits me straight in my heart. I missed us, how it used to be. When was the last time I called her JuJu, my childhood nickname for her? For so much of my life, I wanted to be so much like Juwariyah, bold and beautiful and heartbreakingly and fiercely devoted to the people and causes she believed in.

"You used to come to me with everything," she reminisces, looking down at her chilled glass of water. She traces the water condensation on the rim of her glass with her finger. "I used to be your number one and then we started fighting. I got married, I became a wife and a mother and one day I looked at you and realized along the way you and I didn't feel like sisters and I couldn't remember at what moment I started feeling like that, just that I did." I can tell this is hard for her, that she cares so much. Because things like this aren't hard for Juwariyah. She sees something and she goes for it. She fights for herself. And when things like this are hard for her, it means that she cares so much that it's difficult to shoot straight fearlessly.

"I don't want to be like this with you. I'm not your baby sister anymore, you know? It's not just us fighting as sisters. We don't get along. We don't have a deeper bond. And I hate it. It scares me that I'm going to college next year and becoming an adult and venturing out into the world and it's like this between us. What's it going to be like in five years? Or when Mom and Dad aren't around? Are we going to even be talking except for the sake of talking because we're sisters?"

She cracks a small smile as our waiter, Diab, brings over our order. He sets a turkey bacon cheeseburger in front of me and a plain cheeseburger in front of Juwariyah, along with a huge plate of seasoned fries in between the two of us.

"I worry about that too. I don't want us to be like this, Liyah." Now I have the urge to cry at the sound of her nickname for me. She used to tell me bedtime stories at night when I was a kid and she'd never call me Eiliyah. It was always Liyah, and I remember feeling so special when she did that, that I was so special to her that even my given name wasn't intimate enough for her to call me by so she came up with one of her own.

We take a break then, eat our burgers in silence. I attempt to not smear my red lipstick and still resemble a human as I take a huge bite of my burger, but Juwariyah is a lot better at it than I am. She flips a strand of glossy straight black hair behind her shoulder with ease as she takes a bite of her own burger. She's a lot more graceful than I am, for sure.

Towards the end, when our burgers have disappeared, we're making our way through the plate of fries. We get down to only one fry left. I gesture for her to have it but she shakes her head and pushes the plate towards me.

It's a small gesture, but in that moment, it's enough. And maybe in life we don't have it all but we're so damn lucky to have enough. And this? This is enough.

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I hope you loved it! This book is less direct about faith but I put it in when I could. I wanted to upload COAMG first but I promised I'd do BWL first so here it is.

Please comment below and let me know what you thought and what direction you want this book to take. It's at crossroads right now.

I also want to take a moment to genuinely thank each and every one of you who read my work. I'm constantly blown away and humbled by how many wonderful comments y'all leave on here. Have a great day. Bless up, y'all.

Love,

Ash